


Finding the Words

by evening_coffee



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (At least so far), Backstory, Canon Compliant, Flower Language, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Pre-Canon, Romance, i'll probably add more as this goes on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 11:08:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30088182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evening_coffee/pseuds/evening_coffee
Summary: His poems were either bland and literal or so lost in their metaphors that they became complete nonsense.It was understandable though; he was only a fourteen. He wasn't trying to create high art or anything. At most, he was only trying to understand himself, since it seemed like no one else wanted to.(A look at the life of Martin Blackwood; before, during, and after his time at The Magnus Institute.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Kudos: 1





	Finding the Words

Martin Blackwood was only nine when his father left. 

“Left,” is, of course, a generous euphemism for “abandoned.” He had nowhere to be, but he did have a family to leave behind. 

Martin was old enough to grasp the basics. His mother’s health was failing, and for the past several months she had needed help doing things that should have been easy. Eating, bathing, even just moving from room to room. It was alright though, because Martin’s father was always there for her when he wasn’t working. 

Keyword: was. 

Martin could hear them fighting when he was trying to sleep. They thought they were being clever and sneaky by waiting for their child to go to bed before they got into the real arguments, but if anything, it was just more inconsiderate to eat away at his hours of rest by raising their voices in the middle of the night. Martin knew that things were bad, but he didn’t know _how_ bad. The nuance and intensity of the situation hung out of his grasp. From a child’s perspective, everything should have been very simple. Mum is sick, so Dad and the doctors will help her until she gets better. 

But she didn’t get better, and the fights became louder and longer and sadder. One night, the last night, he heard his mother start to sob. At first, he let it be, but the sounds became so intense and upsetting that Martin became convinced that it wasn’t part of the fight. No, the young boy thought that she must truly be dying of whatever it was that was making it hard for her to move. 

He pushed his sheets off of himself and bolted upright out of bed. He sprinted down the hallway towards his parents' room as tears began to fill his eyes. He had a perfectly clear image in his mind of what he would find beyond their door; his mother lying like a corpse in a coffin with tears in her eyes while his dad stood with his hands on his chest, filled with some sort of nebulous regret. It was like a picture book page portraying a sad but child-friendly scene of death and despair. 

He burst into the room without knocking. “Mum!” he yelled as his chest began to shake with sobs. Both of his parents turned their heads sharply to look at him, and his mother became quieter as Martin’s sobs grew louder. 

The scene was not what he had pictured at all. His mother sat upright, but she was clearly gripping the headboard for support, and although it was dark, Martin could still see the thick lines of anger and frustration on his father’s face. “Martin,” said his father through gritted teeth. He briskly walked towards his son, causing Martin to hyperventilate. His father was not a violent man, nor was he a cruel person in general, but in that moment, he was an angry husband and Martin was a scared child. 

He gripped his son’s wrist with force, but no malice, and took him out of the room as his wife cried out his name. 

He took Martin all the way downstairs and into the kitchen, prompting his son to sit at the table. Martin did so, and his crying began to calm. His mum wasn’t dead. No one was mourning. 

“Would you like something to eat?” His dad asked while opening the fridge. The tone should have sounded casual, but against the backdrop of a woman sobbing, it felt cold and disjointed. 

Martin shook his head, and his dad nodded in response. “Okay. That’s fair. I guess it is—” he looked at the clock, “oh _shit_ it’s almost 1 AM. Damn, we should get you back to bed,” he mumbled as he rubbed his hands up and down his face. 

There was a part of Martin that wanted to point out that his dad had said _two_ bad words in a row, but that part of him was trampled by his desire to keep quiet. There was something deeply strange and unnerving about the whole situation. He and his dad were both in their pyjamas, sitting in the kitchen in the middle of the night, and choosing to ignore the sound of a woman in emotional agony. It was dark, and the only light was the orange glow from the lamp above the dining table. It was designed to create a flower pattern when turned on, but one of the bulbs had dimmed, which just made everything feel more off-kilter. 

His dad reached out to hold his hand and guide him back to bed. Martin found the gesture condescending, but chose to accept it regardless. 

The two of them went up to Martin’s room, and Martin was relieved to hear his mother’s voice becoming softer as the minutes passed. 

Martin lied down, but as his dad moved to tuck him in, he finally said something as a small act of agency in a powerless night. “Dad...stop. I’m not a baby.” 

His father stopped, looked down at the covers, and sighed while letting them go. “Right, sorry. I umm...yeah...sorry.” 

“Dad?” 

“Mmhmm?” 

Martin opened his mouth to ask a question, but he couldn’t decide what to ask. Instead, he stated what he knew to be a fact. “Mum’s not getting better.” 

His dad winced and rubbed his hand through his hair and down his face. His entire body stiffened. “No...no she’s not.” 

Martin didn’t speak, but he looked at his father and waited for more. 

A sigh, long and dramatic, came out as a response. “I’m tired, Martin. I’m just—” he stuttered, and moved his hands around as he tried to find the right words to say to his son, “I just don’t think I can do this anymore. I think—I think I just—” he stopped and looked at Martin, whose eyes were once again brimming with tears. 

He gave up on his futile search for words that could justify his inevitable departure, for he was sure that no phrase or explanation could turn him into the “good guy” in Martin’s mind. Worse than that, he knew that he wasn’t a “good guy” at all. 

He kissed his son on the cheek, turned out the light, and went back to the room with his crying spouse. 

That was the second last time Martin ever saw his father. 

The last time came two days later, when he came to pick up the rest of his things. On that day, he gave Martin a hug, another kiss on the cheek, and a teary “goodbye” that rang with shame. 

Martin thought nothing of it, for the only things on his mind in those few days were the agonized cries of his mother. She howled and sobbed and wept and screamed as the betrayal ate away at her dying heart. 

“Bye dad,” he said dully. He was exhausted and frustrated, and at the moment those feelings squashed any love that he felt for his departing father. 

His father was hurt by the cold goodbye, but he couldn’t let that show. He just nodded, packed his suitcase into his car, and drove away.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are appreciated :)
> 
> The next chapter is already in the works!


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